Chapter 11 - Nico #2
"Stronger?" His laugh turns into a wet cough that makes the monitors spike. "She's a disaster. She's been a disaster since her mother died. Nothing I do, nothing I say works."
"With respect, sir. She's not a disaster. She's in pain. There's a difference."
Silence stretches. Jorge stares at me with those sharp, dying eyes. Measuring. Calculating. Deciding if I'm an ally or an obstacle.
"She's drowning," I continue, because someone needs to say it. "And she needs someone to pull her out, not push her further under."
"You're defending her."
"I'm describing what I see."
"And what do you see?"
"A woman who lost her mother at seventeen and never processed the grief. A woman who's carrying something heavy."
Jorge's jaw tightens. "You've known her a week."
"Sometimes a week is enough to see what family can't."
"And what can't I see?"
"That she's not choosing to destroy herself. She's trying to survive the only way she knows how."
More silence. The monitors beep steadily, marking time Jorge doesn't have.
"Cesar says you're dangerous," he finally says. "He's right."
There's something in his voice. Not anger. Almost… hope?
"You care about her," he says, though maybe it’s a question.
"She's my assignment."
"That's not what I asked."
I don't answer. Can't answer. The truth is too complicated, too dangerous. I couldn't keep Sofia from leaving, couldn't make her stay. But Marisol. Marisol I can keep safe. Even if it means becoming the monster she'll hate.
Jorge studies me a moment longer, then nods. Some internal decision made.
"There's a threat." His voice drops, even though we're alone. "Someone close to me. I don't know who. Not yet. But I feel it. The way a dying man feels everything more clearly."
He reaches out, grips my wrist with surprising strength. His fingers are cold, but his grip is iron.
"The vultures are circling. Waiting for me to die. And when I do, they'll come for her. For the empire. For everything."
"The Zayas family?"
"Yes, but that's external. Expected. This is…" He struggles for words. "This is internal. Someone close. Someone I trust. Someone who's been here so long I can't see them clearly anymore."
Cesar. Everything in me screams Cesar. But I need more than instinct.
"Keep her alive," Jorge says, grip tightening. "Whatever it takes. Whoever you have to destroy. Keep my daughter alive."
"I will, sir."
"Good." Jorge releases me, sinks back into the pillows. Already, our conversation has exhausted him. "You know what I see when I look at you?"
"What?"
"A man who's already half in love with her." A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Don't deny it. I'm dying, not blind. The way you defended her just now… that's not professional concern."
I don't confirm or deny. Just wait.
"She needs someone to protect her."
"Wasn’t that your job?"
The words come out harder than intended. Jorge's eyes flash. Anger, then something like shame. "You think I don't love my daughter?"
"I think you love her. But I think your love comes wrapped in so much disappointment she can't tell the difference anymore."
"How dare you?"
"She came here for you. Sober. Trying. And whatever you said to her, I'm asking you to think about whether it helps her or just makes you feel better about your own failures as a father."
The silence that follows could suffocate us both. Jorge's face cycles through emotions. Rage, grief, maybe even recognition.
"Leave me," he says finally.
I stand to leave, but his voice stops me at the door.
"Rosetti."
I turn.
"When you find out who the threat is, and you will, don't hesitate. Don't show mercy. This world doesn't forgive weakness."
"I know."
"Do you? Because if it's someone she cares about, she'll hate you for it. Can you live with that?"
I think about Marisol, broken and beautiful, drowning in pain she can't name. Think about the morning she'll wake up to find I've destroyed someone she loves, even if they deserved it.
"I can live with her hatred," I say. "I can't live with her death."
Jorge nods slowly. "Then you're the right man for this."
I leave him there, dying alone in his dark room, and wonder if being the right man means being the one willing to break her heart to save her life.
I emerge from the sickroom to find Marisol waiting exactly where I left her. Cesar hovers too close, his hand reaching for her shoulder. She shifts away, subtle but deliberate, and moves toward me instead.
"We're leaving. NOW."
"Marisol." Cesar reaches for her.
But she's already moving, heading for the exit with the desperate energy of someone fleeing a fire. I follow without question.
Behind us, Cesar calls out, voice smooth as silk: "Call me later, carina. We'll talk."
She doesn't acknowledge him. Just keeps walking, almost running, through the marble halls of her childhood home.
We make it to the car. She stands beside it, shaking too hard to open the door. I open it for her, help her in, then round to the driver's side. We pull away from the estate, and she stares out the window. Tears stream silently down her face.
I don't ask. Don't push. Just drive.
The estate disappears behind us. Five minutes pass. Ten.
Then she breaks.
"He said I'm killing her."
My hands tighten on the wheel. "What?"
"My mother. He said…" Her voice cracks, raw and ragged.
"He said watching me destroy myself is like watching her die all over again.
That every time I make headlines, every time I'm a disaster, I'm killing her memory. Proving that she wasted her last breath on me. You know what mom’s last words were to me? Try to be good, like your brother."
"He's wrong."
"Is he? Because I haven't been good. I've been everything she didn't want. Everything he was afraid I'd become."
"You've been surviving. That's not the same as failing."
"It feels the same."
I want to turn the car around. Want to walk back into that sickroom and tell Jorge Delgado that dying doesn't give him the right to destroy his daughter with guilt. But it wouldn't help. Would only make her feel worse. Like she needs defending, like she can't handle her own family.
So I keep driving.
"Can we not go home yet?" Her voice is small, broken. "I can't… I can't be in that apartment right now."
"Where do you want to go?"
"Anywhere. Nowhere. I don't know." She wipes her face with the back of her hand. "Just drive."
I drive. Through Miami, aimless, letting the city stream past while she cries herself empty. The sun starts its descent, painting everything gold.
Eventually, I pull off at a quiet stretch of beach. Not our beach. A different one, rockier, more isolated. The ocean spreads before us, endless and indifferent. I park facing the water.
She's stopped crying. Just stares at the waves, hollow. "I should have been better."
I turn toward her, one hand still on the wheel. "You were seventeen when she died."
"I was old enough to understand." She presses her forehead against the cool window glass, breath fogging a small circle.
"Old enough to be traumatized." I tap my fingers against the steering wheel, watching her reflection in the window. "Not old enough to process it without help."
She twists a strand of hair around her finger, tugging until it must hurt. "My brother processed it."
"Your brother ran." My voice hardens as I shift in my seat to face her fully. "He's been hiding in a church for eight years. That's not processing. That's escaping."
She looks at me sharply. "You don't know anything about him."
"I know he left you. I know you're here, dealing with your dying father alone, while your perfect brother prays somewhere. That's not being good. That's being gone."
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Something shifts in her expression.
"You really see everything, don't you?"
"I told you. I don't look away."
The words hang between us. Then she reaches across the console. Her hand finds mine, fingers interlacing, and she holds on tight.
I let her hold my hand. Let her anchor herself to me.
We sit like that, watching the ocean, her hand in mine, not speaking. The sun bleeds red across the water. Her fingers are small in mine, but her grip is strong. Holding on like I'm the only solid thing in a world that's dissolving.
"I don't want to be alone tonight."
The words are soft, barely audible over the waves.
"You won't be."
"I mean…" She swallows. "I don't want to be alone. In my room. Staring at the ceiling. Thinking about everything he said."
"What do you want?"
"I don't know. Something. Someone." She turns to look at me, and her eyes are devastating. "You."
The word hangs between us. You.
"Marisol."
"I know. I know you have rules. I know you said 'not like this.'" Her voice is steady, clear despite the tears drying on her cheeks. "After the training session, after you walked away from me on that floor two days ago, I didn't think you'd ever want me."
"That was different."
"How?"
"You weren't choosing. You were reacting. Tonight you're choosing."
She looks at me, really looks at me. "But I'm not drunk. I'm not high. I'm completely sober. I'm just… I'm so tired of feeling empty. And when I'm with you, I feel something. Anything."
She turns more fully toward me, and the last of the sunlight catches in her honey eyes.
"Please."
Please. The word hits hard. Unexpected, devastating, no defense prepared. This woman who fights everything, who turns deflection into art, who armors herself in chaos. She's saying please. Not demanding. Not performing. Just asking. Sober, clearheaded, choosing.
I should say no. Should remember she's vulnerable and grieving and this is exactly when people make mistakes they regret. Should maintain the distance that keeps us both safe.
But she's looking at me like I'm the only solid thing left, and maybe that's exactly what I need too. To be solid for someone. To matter beyond the mission.
"Let's go home."
I start the car, but I don't let go of her hand.
The drive back is quiet. Not silent. Quiet. The difference matters. She's not drowning anymore. She's floating, letting me anchor her. Her thumb traces small circles on my palm, and each touch sends heat through me that has nothing to do with Miami's climate.
"I'm not asking for forever," she says suddenly. "I know you'll go back to Chicago eventually. I know this is just… a job for you. But tonight, can we pretend it's not?"
The truth fights its way up my throat. I should lie. Should maintain distance. But she's looking at me with those honey eyes, and the walls I've spent years building crack.
"It stopped being just a job the night you said my name in your sleep."
She looks at me, surprised.
"I did?"
"You did. And then you called me Horse Man."
That pulls a small laugh from her. The sound loosens something in my chest.
"I have excellent taste in nicknames."
"The best."
We pull into her building's garage. The elevator rises toward her penthouse, and with each floor, the air between us thickens. Not with dread or fear. With possibility.
Inside her apartment, she kicks off her heels, suddenly smaller. More fragile. But also more real than I've ever seen her.
"I need to shower," she says. "Wash this day off. But… will you stay? Not in the guest room. Just… stay?"
"Yes."
She disappears into her room. I hear the water start.
I stand in her living room, looking out at the city lights, knowing I'm about to cross a line I can't uncross.
Knowing that tomorrow, everything will be different.
Knowing that Cesar is out there, planning something, and I'll have to stop him, and it will destroy her.
But tonight?
Tonight the soldier can wait.
When she emerges, she's in simple pajamas. No silk, no performance. Just soft cotton and clean skin and eyes that know exactly what she's asking for.
"I don't want to have sex," she says, direct as always. "I just… I don't want to be alone. Is that okay?"
"Yes."
She holds out her hand. I take it.
Her bedroom still smells like vanilla and coconut, but now there's something else. Her. Not the perfume or the products. Just her.
She climbs into bed, pulls back the covers on the other side. An invitation.
I should go to the guest room. Change. Maintain some boundary.
The soldier in me wars with something else. I stand there, frozen between discipline and desire, between what I should do and what she needs.
Instead, I lie down beside her, fully clothed. She curls into my side immediately, her head on my chest, arm across my stomach. I can feel her heartbeat against my ribs. The warmth of her tears soaking through my shirt, the texture of her grief becoming part of me.
"Your heart's racing," she murmurs.
"Yours too."
Eventually, her breathing starts to even out. She's exhausted. Emotionally, physically. The day has taken everything from her.
She falls asleep like that, curled against me, trusting me to keep the monsters away. Not knowing I might be one of them. Not knowing that tomorrow or the next day or soon, I'll have to break her heart to save her life.